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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/22547665">Am Ende gibt es doch ein Ende</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/RoterSand/pseuds/RoterSand'>RoterSand</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Rammstein</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Accidents, Character Death, Death, Depressing, Friendship/Love, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Implied/Referenced Suicide, POV First Person, Sad, Self-Harm, Terminal Illnesses, Violence</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-02-03</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-02-03</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-04-28 15:27:52</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Major Character Death</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,757</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/22547665</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/RoterSand/pseuds/RoterSand</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Someone has to be the last one to go.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>21</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Am Ende gibt es doch ein Ende</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>This is my first published fiction. It is depressing content, and it is meant to be. Please read the warnings.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>They say that you meet your friends and loved ones when you die.</p><p>Oh, how I hope that is true.</p><p>I never expected to be the last one to go. Five deaths. Five funerals. Five graves. Sometimes I can almost hear their voices, their bantering, their laughter. What I would give to even hear them fighting again. Instead, there is just silence.</p><p>Oliver was the first one. Olli, who was so quiet in public, yet so full of life when it was just the six of us around, or when he was comfortable in the presence of people he knew. The one who came up with the craziest ideas for our songs, so many of them got rejected, but the ones that made it through stood out as gems. Olli, the voice of reason in most of our heated discussions. The gentle giant who loved playing and being on stage, claiming his own corner in the back where he lived with the music, happy to leave the spotlight to the others, and equally happy to steal it occasionally and then giving it back after a quick visit at the front of the stage, a bass solo, or a thrilling boat ride.</p><p>No one had expected our youngest member to die first.</p><p>When I got the call, I collapsed on the floor, unable to speak, almost unable to breathe. Our bassist had been on vacation in between tours. He was out catching the big waves when a wipeout knocked him unconscious. Help got to him too late. Resuscitation failed.</p><p>I only remember fragments from the funeral. The private ceremony, far away from the hordes of grieving fans, in the countryside, where Olli had found his tiny bit of paradise. I recall how my hands shook when I played Ein Lied, the song Olli should have been playing, like he did on our album. How I tried to keep myself together, but for every speech, every anecdote told by friends and family, another piece of my heart was ripped out. The coffin had been so light, yet so heavy as we carried it out to put Olli, our dear, dear Olli, into the dark hole in the ground.</p><p>With Oliver, Rammstein died. No one could bear the thought of continuing without him. There was no farewell tour. No going out with a bang. Just a short press conference, all eyes hidden behind dark sunglasses as the brief statement was read. Afterwards, we got drunk and laughed, cried, and shared stories about our bassist until we passed out, exhausted, all in one bed, holding each other tightly out of fear of losing someone else.</p><p>I guess Oliver was lucky. He died doing something he loved, and he did not have to go through what followed. Olli’s death was quick, unlike Flake’s. Seeing our sweet, quirky, and neurotic keyboardist waste away from cancer was like experiencing his death twice. Flake had always been afraid of catching a deadly disease. When it actually happened, he seemed calm. When he lost his appetite and became even thinner than we thought was possible, he kept smiling and joked about how he didn’t need to go on his treadmill to stay thin. When cortisone made his body swell to the unrecognisable, he laughed and said that he really should have had a fat suit for Keine Lust.</p><p>Yet behind the black humour and the laughter, the man slowly fell apart, and at his deathbed, with his family and the four of us around him, Flake seemed scared and uneasy. I remember telling him that Olli would be waiting for him on the other side. Struggling with his breath, Flake looked at me and said that I should know he didn’t believe in such nonsense. But, he added – perhaps clinging to hope as much as I did myself – if I should happen to be right, he would say hi to Olli from me. Not long after, he fell unconscious. Flake never woke up again.</p><p>At Flake’s funeral, held at one of Berlin’s most well-known cemeteries, I noticed something was not as it should be with Till. Too busy with my own grief, I let it slip away from me because it was easier. Because Till was strong. He always survived. Till, the man who almost became an Olympic swimmer. Till, who raised his firstborn daughter as a single father. Till, who overcame his stage fright and learned to somehow enjoy performing. Till, the insecure teenager who turned into a man who could woo almost any woman he wanted. Till, the down to earth superstar who always took care of his friends and family no matter what. Till, who was not afraid of any physical pain.</p><p>I guess he liked it a little too much. When the grief became too much to handle, that is what he looked to for relief. And when your head is screaming for something else to think about, something that is not the death of two of your best friends, then you must cut deep for even a little distraction. Sometimes, it is just not possible to cut deep enough to forget.</p><p>Till was found in his study, his notebook full of words of agony, written in his own blood.</p><p>Death by accident will rip someone away from you, quickly and painfully. Death by illness lets you suffer slowly; it forces you to grieve both before and after it is over. Death by self-harm just eats you up from the inside. My grief was overshadowed by an intense feeling of guilt. I should have known. I should have done something. I should have saved Till. His beautiful voice will never sing again. Instead, Till lies buried in his little village, his retreat, the place where he loved to spend time in the surrounding nature. Now he is a part of it.</p><p>After Till’s death, we raised a mausoleum like we did for Made in Germany. Only this time, it was real. The opening was a small, private ceremony. Seeing two dates on the back of three of the sculpted heads was so painful that I broke down. They had to carry me out of there. I vowed never to go back. Yet sometimes, when the pain becomes too much to bear, I lock myself in at night and let my tears fall to the ground where they dry on top of the thousands of dried tears from fans who made their pilgrimage to the memorial of the band. My band. My colleagues, my friends, my family. My life.</p><p>With each death, the remaining band members became closer. While we used to need time apart, we were now drawn together. Time was precious. We had become painfully aware of our own mortality. Sharing the pain eased the burden. Maybe that is why the loss of Schneider hit us so hard.</p><p>Our drummer had enjoyed family life to the fullest. On the side, he formed a jazz trio, performing at small clubs every now and then. Schneider loved drumming way too much to give it up. He was the same drumming nerd as he had always been, constantly trying out new drums, new cymbals, new effects. Even before his small shows, he practiced in front of the mirror, like in the Rammstein days. As soon as he sat down behind his drum set, he came to life as the Schneider we had played countless concerts with, the Schneider who had been thrilled to play the huge stadiums because they made him feel like a real rock star. Schneider was always a star. Our star.</p><p>A star that was extinguished when a drunk man in a fit of rage attacked a woman at the club where his trio was playing. Schneider tried to calm him down. The only thing that went down, was Schneider.</p><p>And then there was just the two of us left, the two guitarists who used to be total opposites, but who now clung together to keep each other up through the funeral, then through the trial. The press kept looking for the same anger and rage that we used to have in our riffs to add fire to their headlines. They did not find it. A thirst for revenge would not give us Schneider back. We wanted to spend our energy on things that mattered.</p><p>So we played. Several nights a week, we sat in one of our apartments with our guitars and played. Mostly old songs. We would sing and imitate Till’s voice, of course without succeeding. We would play Olli’s bass riffs and wonder how he managed to play them on a bass. We would miss the delicate touches from Flake’s keyboards, the power from Schneider’s drums. Sometimes we would come up with a great riff, and we would smile wearily at each other because it would have been so perfect for Rammstein.</p><p>Rammstein. The band which had been a part of me for more than half of my life when it ended so abruptly. Rammstein had shown six young men from former East Germany the world. Rammstein had given us unique opportunities. Rammstein had become a unity so strong that in the end, only death could break it.</p><p>We had known it would come to an end, but when the end came, we were not prepared for it. There had still been songs to play, concerts to do, experiences to share. Those things undone would stay undone. Our time had passed, but no one could take away our memories.</p><p>It was as we were refreshing those memories that I lost Paul. We were at his place talking, playing, smiling, when he went quiet and sunk down in his chair, his guitar dropping out of his hands, his smile disappearing, his eyes losing that spark and light that was the Paul I knew and loved. And I screamed, begging him not to leave me, desperately trying to bring that light back, but I couldn’t, the paramedics couldn’t. Paul was gone.</p><p>I was alone.</p><p>Our mausoleum has become one of Berlin’s main attractions. Five of the sculpted heads have two dates on their back. One day mine will, too. Then all of Rammstein will be history.</p><p>When I close my eyes, I sometimes imagine them all – Olli, Flake, Till, Schneider, Paul – sitting in our old rehearsal room in Prenzlauer Berg, talking, smiling, laughing. I imagine they are waiting for me.</p><p>They say that you meet your friends and loved ones when you die.</p><p>Oh, how I hope that is true.</p>
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